Tinman

by Karen Black

  “It’s a paint peeler.”

  “But,” she said triumphantly, “I can wear a blouse or a sweater over it and it looks very nice. I got two blouses and two sweaters, one jazzy and one prissy. Now get serious, and tell me what happened?”

  Corky did indeed look serious when I had finished. “Poor Hennie, he’s so scared. Is there anything we can do? He’s in danger. He knows something Charley knew.”

  She was right, of course, but I couldn’t see much that I could have done when Leonard whisked him away in his big black limousine, maybe admonished Leonard that I would hold him responsible. A lot of good that would do. Moral suasion versus TINMAN. Bambi meets Godzilla. “I’ll look into that problem tomorrow when I confront the lion, i.e. Leonard, in his den.”

  I sketched the diagram Hennie had drawn on the partition–the two horizontal lines, one long, one short; the vertical line connecting them; the long, S-shaped curve intersecting them; and the “no dam” cryptic note at the top of the S. We puzzled over it together. The curved line almost had to be a river. The horizontal lines were probably parallels of latitude, and the vertical line was probably a meridian of longitude. If Hennie had only put down just one notation of actual degrees of latitude and longitude there would be no problem. We could go straight to the location in any decent atlas. As it stood it could be any S-shaped river bend in the world including the Mississippi River at Saint Paul, Minnesota, for example. The grid of latitude and longitude covers the world.

  Even if we assumed in the present context that it was someplace in Alaska, there were still any number of possibilities. There was no scale on the diagram, and the river was just a very thin line. It could represent a very big river or just a creek. It could represent a mile of river or twenty miles of river. The straight lines could also be political boundaries or property boundaries. As for the pyramid, I couldn’t even be sure Hennie drew it, let alone what it meant. Something about dollars, maybe.

  “Who or what is Herodotus?” Corky asked.

  “An ancient Greek philosopher or some kind of writer, or maybe he was Roman.” I answered vaguely, distracted by other thoughts.

  “Damn,” I said at last, “Hennie assumes I know something that I don’t. It would probably all be obvious if we knew what Charley was up to.”

  “That’s what we’re going to Alaska to find out,” Corky said matter-of-factly.

  I paused, thinking, for several moments, finally concluding it probably made a lot of sense. “Okay,” I responded, “but not until after Charley’s funeral.”

  Shadows were lengthening, and the sun had left our patch of grass. We gathered up our things and rather reluctantly left the little island of calm the museum had provided. We headed east on Colorado Boulevard through the center of Pasadena looking for a decent and reasonable little motel that I remembered from attending meetings at Cal Tech on a graduate student’s budget. It was even less pretentious than I had remembered, my value system for motels having no doubt escalated in the intervening years. “You’re much too glamorous for a place like this,” I said, ruefully surveying the Formica-topped tubular metal furniture and the decor featuring pink flamingos on black velvet silhouetted against an orange tropical moon. “I should have taken you to the Inn.”

  “Silly,” she smiled, tamping down an almost-giggle, “let’s think about important things, like where we would like to eat.”

  “I sort of liked that Chinese dinner we had that first night.”

  “You border on the outrageous,” she said, but she snickered again. “I can see I’m going to have to take this into my own hands. L.A. is a new place for me, I have to try the Mexican food. It’s generally made for gringos, and it’s never as good as home, but I keep trying.”

  Once we had settled into dinner, which I would have graded as fairly good gringo Mexican food and Corky thought was at best probably harmless, she asked, “Why have you agreed to call on Leonard at TINMAN and what do you think you can accomplish?”

  “Well,” I said, “I’ve blown my cover with Leonard, at least as Gregory McGregor, so I might as well get his side of the story and find out as much as I can about what TINMAN is doing in Alaska.”

  “You don’t think you’ll get the truth, do you?”

  “Some, the problem will be to sort it out. It will be interesting to compare what he says with what develops as this game goes on. The matter of the Cliffe Motel may give me a little leverage.”

  “Blackmail?”

  “Not quite.”

  That night, as we lay close to each other in the dark on the edge of sleep she said, “Greg, are you awake?”

  “Barely, no pun intended.”

  “I loved the museum. Thank you for having us meet there.”

  “We’ll go back together sometime and take all the time we want.”

  She sighed contentedly.

  CHAPTER XV

  Los Angeles, Day 4, Thursday, The Story of Jasmine

  Sobering news was buried in the metro section of the morning Times. Headed, “Farnsworth murder suspect flees,” it reported that a patient held for investigation under police guard in the Los Angeles County Hospital had escaped. The prisoner, identified through finger prints, as LeeRoy Whately, age 42, was being held for the Denver, Colorado, police as a suspect in the murder of Charles Campbell Farnsworth, prominent Los Angeles civil engineer. Whately had a lengthy police record under several aliases and had served time for felonious assault, armed robbery and drug possession with intent to sell. He was considered armed and dangerous. Accomplices, posing as a nurse and an orderly, removed him from his room on the pretext of taking him to a neurological examination. Once in the elevator, they overpowered the police guard and fled through a service entrance. The accomplices were described as a blonde woman of medium-heavy build in her 40’s and a tall, muscular black man of about 35.

  Corky shuddered slightly as we finished reading. “What do you think, Greg?”

  “Impressive,” I said.

  “That’s a funny word to use. What do you mean?”

  “The organization behind it…the way they back up their point men, a helicopter at Aspen, and now this.”

  “Doesn’t it scare you?”

  “Sure.”

  “So, what are we going to do?”

  “Call on Leonard Nathan.”

  “Greg, I’m a big admirer of true grit and stick-to-it-iveness, but…”

  “But?”

  “I couldn’t stand it if you got hurt.”

  I gave her a hug, “I’m really not that big on taking chances.”

  “I thought getting out on that ledge was a little risky.”

  “I was trapped into that. Besides, the TINMAN building doesn’t have ledges.” I gave her an irreverent grin to which she returned a scowl. “And, I’ve decided I’m going to put my visit with Leonard off one day. I want to have a meeting with Hennie first, if I can arrange it. I’ll let Leonard stew one more day.”

  I looked at my watch. It was a little after nine in Saint Paul. Time to call Mike.

  “So,” said Mike, “You’ve come to rest in L.A.”

  “Not a felicitous choice of words. It’s been close a couple of times.”

  Mike was silent for a moment. “Seriously?”

  “Well,” I said, offhanded, “I almost got tossed off a fifteen-story balcony, but I’ve only had a gun pulled on me once. Nothing serious.”

  “…Not…serious?”

  “He didn’t shoot.”

  “All right,” Mike said soberly, “you may be pulling my leg, but presumably you think you need legal advice, or you wouldn’t be calling. Well, I’m going to give you some free, before you ask, not that you don’t already know what it is. Tell the cops in L.A. what you know and get the Hell out of there. Now, since I know you won’t take it, what else can I do for you?”

  “About legs…”

  “Oh, yes.” Mike’s voice perceptibly brightened. “I have strong presumptive evidence that the girl who delivered your Sunday pa
per is known as Jazzy Saint James.”

  “Jazzy Saint James! Who or what is Jazzy Saint James?” As I uttered the name, Corky swiveled around with a look of pure astonishment.

  “I know you’re a bit square,” Mike said, which touched a nerve, “but even you should know that Jazzy Saint James is the principal chanteuse in a pop vocal group called ‘The Ecofreaks’…much admired in some circles for their bittersweet ballads attacking people who kill whales, wear fur coats, and the like. Also noteworthy is the fact that the entire group is like a big-time basketball team…all black and about seven feet tall except Jazzy, she’s white and only six feet tall.”

  “Mike,” I said, “If it’s your turn to pull my leg, we are now even. Nobody has ever been christened Jazzy Saint James. Do you know her real name?”

  “Have you got a firm grip on your chair? There are rumors around town that Jazzy Saint James is Jasmine Jarlemain.”

  I could only shake my head in disbelief. “THE Jasmine Jarlemain?” I finally asked.

  “Could there be another?”

  My thoughts went back more than a dozen years to beautiful Jasmine Jarlemain. My generation of Minnesota high schoolers would never quite forget her. Minnesota’s golden girl, Miss Everything. She carried her little north woods mining town to high school championships in everything from girls’ basketball and baseball to debating, glee club, baking cakes and National Merit Scholarship exams. I remembered the crowds at the state championships clapping in rhythm as they chanted YA-ya, YA-ya, YA-ya (Jasmine insisted she was Yasmine Yarlemain). YA-ya, elusive as a will-o-the-wisp, decked her opponents out of their shoes and swished basket after basket through the nets, or struck out the side inning after inning and homered to win the game. Cornered by a reporter, her father’s one recorded public comment (quite a lot for an iron-range Finn) was, “She could help around the house more, but she ain’t a bad kid.”

  Senior year she was State Fair Queen and a shoo-in, we all thought, for Miss America, except the dopey judges at the regional level were afraid she was too tall. They explained it was unfair to make the other girls look small! I remembered the awesome smile, the eyes sky-blue with stars, the golden hair, the glowing complexion, even without a trace of make-up, the fantasies she stirred in me, and the overwhelming feeling that she was just too much.

  I remembered the let-down when she left us…accepted an athletic scholarship at a southern university with a big-time women’s program and disappeared from our screen, except for an occasional flash about leading the Southern Conference in scoring or setting a record in the high jump.

  Then came the media blitz. Ya-Ya Jarlemain was turning pro in her junior year! She was “the franchise” in a new women’s basketball league, promoted mostly in the South. Because Jasmine had forsaken us, I think we were all secretly a little gleeful as this much-ballyhooed venture foundered, even though we rejected the sleazy gossip that Jasmine was involved in a red-hot affair with one of pro basketball’s all-time, millionaire super-stars, Willie “the Wizard” Wilkington. And we were rueful when Jasmine’s career sank without a trace in a sea of rumors that she was pregnant. Willie the Wizard became highly visible on the Riviera with a French film starlet. Jasmine became a memory.

  “But, Mike, how could Jasmine set foot in Minnesota without being recognized instantly?”

  “A dozen years make a difference, I guess. I didn’t get to see her. Apparently she left town Sunday. People I spoke to said she was gorgeous, but different. Someone said ‘haunted.’”

  “Mike, are you sure? Do you have proof?”

  “I’d have to say that I’m pretty sure, but I don’t actually have proof. How would you prove it?”

  “How’d you latch on to her?

  “Basically used your line. Got to talking about gorgeous show girls in Vegas and New York, and why didn’t we have any in the same class here. Almost got into a couple of fist fights, but ended up with a short-list of several very presentable leggy blondes. Jazzy appears to have left town early Sunday, so I think she’s the one.”

  “What about the guy who drove the car…the gunmetal Corvette?”

  “I’ve drawn a blank so far. Apparently there is a very hard-nosed dame that manages the group…sort of an overblown Dolly Parton type….”

  “Hard to imagine.”

  “Yes, well, they tell me that underneath the southern sweet talk she’s a very tough cookie.”

  “They?”

  “A girl at the nightspot where they played. She says Jazzy was a regular Greta Garbo…spoke to no one…walked on stage and walked off. Hardly seen except behind the footlights and in full make-up. No one could get past the Dragon Lady.”

  “Where were they booked next?

  “My source isn’t sure, but has an idea it’s Alaska, after a one-night show in the Los Angeles area. Someone thought they played someplace around Anchorage a year or so ago.”

  “Alaska!” I had to laugh. “Considering Alaskan proclivities for supplying the basic materials for whale oil and fur coats, they’ve got to have chutzpah! Did they play behind barbed wire?”

  “Maybe not everybody in Alaska is trigger happy.”

  “I’m still putting this in my funny coincidence file.”

  “I can’t think of much else to tell you, Greg. How long will you be in L.A.?”

  “At least until Charley’s funeral…Saturday.”

  “Oh, yes. One more thing, a Leonard Nathan of TINMAN, Inc. called yesterday. He said it was very urgent that you call him as soon as possible. He wanted to inform you that Charley Farnsworth had been murdered.”

  “How did he happen to call you?”

  “He called your house first. I took the liberty of setting up your telephone answering machine to refer calls to my number. I thought it was the smart thing to do. I hope it was OK.”

  “That depends on what you told him.”

  “Nothing more than was in the papers…you narrowly escaped a mysterious explosion at your home on Sunday and decided to lay low until some questions were cleared up.”

  “What was his reaction?”

  “Surprise, concern, dismay, seemingly sincere. Wanted to know more, which I, of course, politely stonewalled.”

  “You did OK. Keep stonewalling.”

  “How about leaving me a number…some way to reach you in a pinch?”

  “I guess this little motel will do. We might as well stay here until Saturday.”

  “We?”

  The surprise and curiosity in Mike’s voice triggered the sudden realization that I had let a cat out of the bag. Flustered, I tried to cover up. “Well, I…ah…uh know…you remember, I…ah mentioned it last time we talked, I have this…um…alter ego, Malcolm Gregory that Charley fixed up. I’m just getting so used to thinking of myself in this…um dual role that…ah….”

  By this time Mike was laughing hysterically. “Greg, Greg,” he pleaded between gasps, “You are by all odds the least talented liar I have ever encountered in the practice of law. Please. Let up.”

  “Okay, Mike,” I said stiffly, even though I knew very well he was just kidding me in the same spirit in which I often teased him, “I guess we’ve covered everything for now. Call you in a couple of days.”

  “Greg….”

  “So long, Mike.” I hung up.

  I glanced up at Corky, standing in the middle of the room, looking very fetching in bra and panties, and also very baffled at the turn my side of the conversation had taken. What was I doing? Why did I stumble around trying to improvise that ridiculous charade? Why shouldn’t Mike know about Corky? I could see that Corky was wondering too, but something else was uppermost in her mind.

  “What was that about Jazzy Saint James?” Her voice had a note of incredulity.

  “Mike thinks she’s the mad bomber.”

  “That’s crazy!” Corky was outraged. “Don’t you know who she is?”

  “Mike told me. She sings with a pop group called The Ecofreaks.”

  “But don’t you k
now who they are?”

  “Mike says they come down hard on folks who wear fur coats.”

  “That’s a cheap put-down. I’m surprised you even think it’s funny.”

  I was totally taken aback by Corky’s intensity. “Look, I’m sorry. I had no idea we were dealing with major ecological cult heroes.

  Corky’s eyes were blazing. “You don’t have to be in some kind of a cult to want to protect the environment and save living things, including ourselves, I might add, from extinction simply as the result of human greed.”

  “I won’t argue that. I’m totally on your side….”

  “Not totally, not even close.” Corky broke in. “You get involved in all those dams and tunnels and highways and mines and other insults to the environment.”

  We stood facing each other, eyes locked, both in a state of utter exasperation. Bright red spots were glowing on Corky’s cheeks, and I am sure my neck was red to the ears. “All right,” I said, fighting to keep calm, “That’s a point we can get back to later. I am only telling you, in answer to your question, that Mike thinks he has good evidence that the girl…dame…person…who planted a booby trap on my front porch and killed Darwin is a pop singer named Jazzy Saint James.”

  “That’s impossible. I have to wonder about your friend, Mike.”

  “Mike is a very sharp, sensible lawyer, not hostile to good pop music. In fact, I think he even listens to it.” I tried to keep my exasperation from erupting.

  “I don’t care. It’s nutty. I know Jazzy Saint James.” She paused, then clarified. “Well, I don’t actually know her, not personally. But I was skiing at Tahoe when she got started. She was a showgirl in Reno, one of those tall, gorgeous animals with the incredibly glitzy costumes and head-dresses. But she stayed out of all that in her own life and wrote a bunch of wonderful songs about, you know, people, nature, love and the environment. She put this little group of talented black guys together all on her own and when they were ready, they just walked out on the Reno and Las Vegas hype. The first gig they got was in a little spot outside Tahoe. I happened to be there with a bunch of friends, and she was wonderful. I’ve been a fan ever since. I wanted to meet her and get to know her, but she’s a totally private person. So you see, Greg, Mike’s idea just doesn’t make sense.”